I Held Him First
by OddLittleBrit
Summary: When you raise a child from birth, it's hard to be pulled away so suddenly when they start their own family, as Arthur discovers. A story about a boy who makes mistakes, but does his best nonetheless. A human AU, with some RusAme


**AN: So inspired by I Held Her First by Heartland, I wrote this - a teenage Arthur watching his son grow up!**

**WARNING?: Shouty, and mentions of teenage pregnancies. Also I have no idea if it would work out this way in real life, but it works for this!**

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia not mine**

* * *

When Francis came hone that afternoon, the door was already unlocked. That was odd, the only other occupant of the small two bedroomed house was normally out for hours after school. He dropped his case by the door, and as he hung up his coat, he called out.

"Art, are you here?" He asked, but there was no answer. He stuck his head around the door frame. His godson sat unmoving on the sofa, frozen. Francis sped over to his side, worry flooding him. The small blonde teen didn't tuen to face him.

"Art? Arthur, what's wrong?" He asked, wrapping an arm around the shoulders of the boy. Emerald eyes flicked up to his, and they were filled with tears. He swallowed, eyes ducking away from Francis'.

"I… I screwed up. F-Francis," he exhaled. "I… Screwed up. She's…" And somehow, then, Francis understood. Arthur didn't need to finish his sentence, as he buried his head in his guardian's shoulder and sobbed.

She didn't want the baby. She had said that much, that it shouldn't be something a 17 year old dealt with. But Arthur couldn't do that, he couldn't let her get rid of it. He was the father, they both knew it. So he'd look after it. Them. The baby.

A baby. A child. Another life, that for 18 years Arthur would have to protect. But it was more than that, it was a lifetime. Arthur knew better than anyone, that it wasn't just a few years of parenting and you were done.

His own parents had been young. They'd looked after him for a while but they weren't ready to give up their lives. There were arguments and fights. There were accidents.

So it came to be that by the age of 8, Arthur was living with the closest person he had to family - his god father, Francis.

Now 8 years later, he was sat in the same position as them.

Francis found him, in his bedroom a few weeks later, a picture of his parents flung to the floor. The Frenchman picked it up, and rapped on the already open door.

"Arthur?" He asked quietly, and the huddled lump on the bed grunted. Francis stepped in, looking srlund the room. It was decorated like any teenagers. Posters of girls and bands, stacks of music and homework. A shelve of books above his bed, some well thumbed, others hardly read textbooks. A guitar in the corner.

All to be moved, for a cot. Francis placed himself at the end of the bed.

"Arthur, it's going to be alright, I've told you-"

"It's not! It's not, Francis, nothing's alright, I'm not alright- DON'T TELL ME I AM!" He snapped, sitting up so violently the bed creaked. Francis shook his head.

"You're not, I didn't say you were. I said this will be alright, I know you're not. What's wrong?" He asked, the photo still held between finger and thumb. "You can talk to me," he said, watching Arthur drop his head into his hands.  
There was a long silence.

"I'm as bad as them. I screwed up, I'm going to-" he choked. Francis glanced at the photo in his hand, his old friends smiling up at him. He sighed.

"They weren't bad people. They were just ill prepared. Silly. You, you're not. You might have made a mistake, but you're not going to screw up. This," He said, pointing to Arthur "This worry, you're proving that. You know not to make the same mistakes. You're going to be okay. And so will your child," he reassured him. Arthur looked up at him, and Francis smiled.

"I'll be here, don't you worry… Grandpa will help," he said with a chuckle.

It all went by so fast. Arthur was there for the appointments, he was there to wait on her hand and foot. But he didn't love her. She didn't love him. He wasn't even sure she loved the child, but she seemed to care deeply for it. Enough to want Arthur there when their child came into the world.

It was the start of July, and as the celebrations began, so did something else. Arthur was roused from sleep by a phone call at nearing midnight on the 3rd, and with only a blurted yell to Francis, was out of the door in seconds.

He ran, and a good thing too, as it was the early hours of July 4th, that his son was born.

They handed him to him, swaddled in blankets within minutes. He didn't cry, like Arthur had thought he might. No, his son only gurgled, his bright blue eyes staring up into Arthur's own green ones.

"Hello, little one," he said, his voice low. The boy made another sound, turning his face to properly look at his father. Arthur saw the small mess of blonde hair, so similar to his own, and the nose the even on a child so small, reminded him of his own. Of his fathers.

He held the boy close, as nurses shuffled around him. None of them mattered anymore. Not even her, not even Francis, not even Arthur. Nobody was important. Nobody, but Alfred. His son.

He could take him home the next day, and as he walked the few blocks back to their new home, he thought of nothing but Alfred.

Francis was at home waiting, the cot set up and lunch bubbling on the stove. Arthur held his son while Francis cooed over him, demanding a hug of his own. Arthur looked down, a smile on his face.

"I don't know, Alfred, do you want a hug from Grandpa?" He asked, and Alfred waved a podgy hand. "I'll take that as a yes," he said, and Alfred looked up him, as if in agreement. Arthur could have sworn he had grinned back too.

"It wasn't all easy, of course. Alfred spent half that night up screaming for food, and nothing has really changed since," Arthur laughs, turning to look at Alfred. Now, 23 years later, he stands at his son's wedding, and grins as the young man's face flushes red with every embarrassing story and stupid memory.

"We might have gone through some rough patches," he says, remembering the fights. Whenever he tried to forbid him from something, Alfred had only retorted with 'Look who's talking! The guy who had a kid at 16!'. And there had been times where he locked himself in his room for days on end.

"But when we eventually sorted them, we've had a great time," and its true. They might not have been well off, and for some time, Arthur's school work got in the way. But they saved where they could and had plenty of holidays and outings to look back on.

"And now… Now you're all grown up, and you're moving on. You're… You're leaving your dad," he says, and now it's getting harder to blink away the sting of tears. "I did my best to do what I could for you, and I think I did a pretty good job. I love you, Alfred, and I hope you know that - you too Ivan," he adds, and though his smile is playful, Arthur's eyes burn with serious flames. His gaze locks onto his son's new husband's.

"I love this boy. I've loved him since he could fit in my hand. You be careful with him, and you love him like you promised to. I know where you live," he adds, to lighten the mood again, and the crowd laugh. He sits as dessert begins, and Alfred turns to him.

He might have grown much taller, gained a lot more muscle, inherited some awful eyesight and got a tan, but when Alfred smiles, Arthur still sees his little boy.

"Hey, dad," he says, and his own eyes are sparkling with tears. "That was really nice, what you said. Really, really, honest. I don't think I said it enough when I was a kid, so… i love you," he says, throwing his arms around his father and squeezing nearly all the air from his lungs. Arthur laughs, squeezing him back.

"Ad hey, don't worry about Ivan," he whispers in his dad's ear. "Gramps taught me all about poking a guys eyes out,"' Arthur rolls his eyes. "That's really not the kind of advice I wanted him to give you," and Alfred just laughs.

Arthur finds his own god father a while later, as the first dance begins. He doesn't look much different, but there are laughter lines around his eyes and grey streaks under a bottle of dye. He throws and arm over Arthur's shoulders.

He feels Arthur's shoulders tremble beneath him, and pulls him into a hug.

"He'll always love you, silly. He'll always be your little boy first," he says, reassuring his own son, the boy he raised. "Don't cry, Art," he says playfully, the old nickname brought back to life. He gets an elbow to the ribs and laughs.

Today is a happy day.


End file.
